


It Goes Like This

by IWrteFicNotTragedies



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mortal, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, fight, hahaha, i hate this, solangelo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:24:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6538912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWrteFicNotTragedies/pseuds/IWrteFicNotTragedies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I want to pull him aside and kiss him, I want to reach out and take his hand, I want him to run his hands through my hair and tell me that he wants me too. I want and I want and I want what I can’t have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Goes Like This: I Want and I Want and I Want

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance for any heartbreak

It starts like this: he’s waiting where he always is, right outside of Aroma Mocha, leaning against the pillar that keeps the overhang from crashing down on top of him. He always has a sense of casual grace about him; one foot crossed over the other, the toe of his beat-up sneaker resting on the ground next to its pair, head tilted to the right so his dark hair falls partially over one eye. He’s looking out across the street, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, eyebrow furrowed like there’s a complicated math problem painted on the front of the Aeropostle and he’s trying to figure it out.

Nico di Angelo is a complicated math problem, though, and I’ve never been able to figure him out, so I can understand why he would look like that. Like he’s kind of amazed, but also sad and frustrated, because he knows he’ll never actually be able to get what he wants out of it.

He looks up–brown eyes wide in surprise like he hadn’t expected to see me–when I approach, and then he pushes himself off the pillar, disentangling his legs in the process, and gives me a bashful smile, brushing hair out of his face. All in one smooth motion, like it’s choreographed movement and he’s practiced the dance over and over until it looks like poetry reads.

“Nico,” I say, and this always the part where he steps forward and knocks his knuckles softly against my jaw. He always has to reach up to do it, and that hasn’t changed in the past week.

“Hey, Solace.” And that’s always what he says, because we’ve got this down to an exact science. Up until this point, that is, because I always want to lean down and kiss him, but I never do, and that always leads to me tripping over my own tongue and saying something that makes him laugh.

“You…” I mutter, and one side of his mouth tilts upward, which only serves to confuse my emotions even more, “…have got…” And now he’s raising an eyebrow and he looks like he really wants to laugh, and I want to hear him laugh, so I say, “…a leaf in your hair,” which is not what I was going to say at all, and is also not true, but it gives me an excuse to push my hand through his hair–which somehow manages to be soft and tangled at the same time–and it also makes him laugh and shove at my chest, so I figure it wasn’t a bad thing to say at all.

He grabs my arm and starts pulling me down the street, so I lengthen my stride to catch up to him, which is when he lets go and also when I realize that I didn’t want him to.

“I was thinking,” he tells me, tugging on the end of his scarf, and I smirk down at him, because I can’t help it, and say, “Yeah, people tend to do that sometimes. Even you, Nico.”

He shoots me a playful glare and shoves my arm half-heartedly with one hand, _“I was thinking_ that we should go somewhere different today.”

Nico is looking straight forward, which I should be doing too, I guess, but I can’t stop looking at him. And I want him to look back at me, but I guess one of us has to actually watch where we’re going, so I take the opportunity to study him, “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, and he makes it sound like something dangerous and exciting.

I want to pull him aside and kiss him, I want to reach out and take his hand, I want him to run his hands through my hair and tell me that he wants me too. I want and I want and I want what I can’t have. “And where is that?”

He looks up at me, smiling like he knows something I don’t, “Ice skating.”

“Nico!” I exclaim, and his smile is widening by the second, “Have you forgotten what happened when I tried roller blading? How do you think it’s going to turn out if you put blades on my feet and throw me out onto the ice to fend for myself?”

He can’t stop laughing. Laughing, laughing, laughing up at the sky, and then down into his scarf, trying to muffle it, when I shove him and tell him he’s a dick. He’s still laughing, and his face is turned away from me, a high flush on his cheeks, when says something I don’t quite catch because it’s rushed and overlaid with laughter and all of this is muffled by the scarf around his neck.

“What was that?” I ask, breathless, because I can’t believe my ears, and he looks up at me, so beautiful it hurts, and says, “I love you.” One eyebrow raised, grinning, _smirking._ It’s a taunt, a dare, a promise. Like he’s goading me into something; I don’t know what, but I stop dead in my tracks and stare at his face for a second, waiting for it to be a cruel joke, but nothing changes. He’s still there, staring me down, smiling, eyes narrowed, so I catch the lapels of his jacket in my hands and push him up against the nearest shop.

I want and I want and I want and I take. And he gasps and he gives.

-

It builds like this: he’s in my kitchen, in my t-shirt, but _his_ boxer briefs and socks and he looks sleepy, but not tired. It’s different because “tired” comes with dark circles under eyes and slumped shoulders and defeat, while “sleepy” comes with mussed hair and droopy eyelids and smiles sent my way through yawns.

He’s got music playing softly–[something upbeat and playful](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FVRVgptW7bYg&t=ZTljZmMwNGQ0YTM0MjgzOTNkMjhmNjNmMzdjYzFmYzdlZWEyNjdhYyxyREpSVm5aeg%3D%3D)–and he’s on his toes, stretching his arm up as high as he can in order to gingerly pull a mug from the top shelf.

I lean against the doorframe, smiling as he makes his way to the pantry, bobbing his head and singing along, to grab the coffee. He doesn’t notice me until he turns around to make his way to the sink with the kettle, and stops what he’s doing. He just grins at me, mouthing the lyrics and pads the rest of the way over across the tile.

I watch him turn on the tap and fill up the kettle, swaying his hips to the beat, and I want and I want and I want exactly what I have. So, when he turns around, kettle in hand, I walk forward and intercept him, pulling it away from him and setting it on the counter at the same time I walk forward, pushing him back against it.

He’s laughing and he’s still laughing when I stoop down to capture his lips in mine, so the kiss doesn’t last very long, and it ends with me biting his lower lip playfully and him laughing even harder, hands braced on my chest.

I grin at him, brush my fingers over his hair, kiss his nose. Nico just huffs quietly and settles into me, head on my chest now, arms looped around my waist. I want and I want and I need.

We’re like that for a little while, just us and our breaths and the music playing quietly, drifting around us, until Nico pulls back a bit, muttering, “Coffee,” and I roll my eyes at him and allow him to escape. He ducks out of my arms and squeaks when I turn and plant a sloppy kiss on his temple.

Nico makes coffee and I decide to make pancakes and, together, we eat breakfast at my table, legs tangled underneath, and I think that just maybe this can last. This can be mine.

-

It crumbles like this: he’s out buying groceries and he has his things in one nightstand and I have mine in the other, and it’s a silent agreement that each of us keeps to our own, just for this one thing. So really, I shouldn’t have even found it, but I didn’t mean to be snooping, just putting his old skull ring in the drawer, because I’d discovered it behind the dresser and I didn’t want to forget to give it to him.

But when I see a piece of paper, neatly folded in thirds with ‘Percy’ written over it in neat script, the kind of handwriting Nico only has when he’s really serious about something, curiosity gets the best of me. I pick it up, turn it over, put it back, close the drawer, walk away. But then I walk back and take it back out, sit on the bed, unfold it.

_Percy,_

_I just needed to get this out. I know we haven’t seen each other in years, but I still think about you. More than I’d like to admit. Because I had a crush on you, probably still do. I do._

_There’s a reason I’m telling you this. I met a guy. His name is Will and he’s everything. He really is. But sometimes. Sometimes when I kiss him, I see you. And that scares me because how am I supposed to love him when a part of my heart still belongs to you?_

_I think I love you, Percy, I really do--_

I drop the letter like it’s scalded me, and it has. I want to run. I want to hide. I don’t know where I’d go, though, so I just sit, processing.

Nico di Angelo is a complicated math problem and I can’t figure him out. I can’t figure him out because part of his equation belongs to someone I’ve never met. Because whenever he looks at me, he might not be seeing me at all. It makes me sick to my stomach. I want to punch something.

Ultimately, it’s like this: I want and I want and I want all of what I already have. And he won’t give it and I can’t take it and so I want and I want and I had.

-

It ends like this: he comes home with a grin on his face and grocery bags dangling from his hands, shoulders the door closed, calling a greeting into the apartment. When he sees me sitting on the couch, head in my hands, he stops in his tracks and puts the bags down carefully.

Normally, when he sat down next to me and touched my back carefully, asking what was wrong, I would lean into him and he would trace patterns onto my shoulder blades and, somehow, he’d always make things alright. Now, though, he sits down next to me, and when he reaches out to touch me, I flinch away and he freezes.

“…Will?” He’s scared, I can hear it in his voice. Part of me feels bad for it.

“Who’s Percy?” I whisper, and for a few seconds, it’s silent and tense. I want to scream.

He chokes, “What?” and that’s when I snap, dropping my hands, jerking my head up to look him in the eye. Now it’s his turn to flinch.

“You heard what I said.” My voice is forcefully–deathly–calm.

He lets out a shaking breath, holding my gaze, “Did you go through my things?”

I level my gaze at him, it says, _So what if I did?_

His shoulders tense up and his hands curl into fists, expression icing over, “You had no right to–”

I glare at him, “I was putting your ring back, Nico– oh, and by the way, I found this.” I toss it into his lap and he startles and then looks down at stares at it. His jaw drops, his fingers fumble and pick it up like it’s fragile and he looks at me with wide eyes, “Will–”

I shake my head, “I know I shouldn’t have read the letter, Nico, but you shouldn’t be keeping things like this from me.”

He’s quiet. He knows I’m right. He blows out air slowly, slowly, biding his time. “I know. I know.”

“Know what, exactly?” I’m not being rational, all I can think is _He doesn’t love me. He’s been telling me he loves me this whole time and he’s not even talking to_ me. “That you love _him?_ I already knew that, Nico. That letter said it all.”

“Will, just _listen!”_ He reaches out for me, face crumpling, and I swat him away, stand up. I’m not in the mood to listen.

“I love you too, Will!”

I whip around, I’m shaking, “That’s the problem! You love me _too._ I’m just your default plan because you can’t have someone else.”

“That’s not true. That’s not true.” He’s standing now, and he takes a step toward me, so I take one back.

“Then what _is_ true, Nico?”

We’re both crying, I didn’t realize it until I noticed a tear tracking its way down his cheek. He shakes his head, “That I love you. I love you.”

I stare him in the eye, daring him to look away, “Then look at me and tell me that if he’d have called you up and confessed his undying love for you and begged for you to go to him, you wouldn’t have even considered it.” My chest is heaving. Internally, I’m screaming, begging for him to deny it.

His eyes are wide and he opens and closes his mouth, no sound comes out. That hesitation is all I need. I just shake my head and take a step back. Shaking, shaking. I can’t look at him anymore, so I turn around and start making my way to the door, “I _won’t_ just be second best, Nico. I won’t just be your stand-in so you can imagine kissing someone else.”

He’s suddenly in front of me, blocking the way to the door, _“Will!”_

“Move out of my way, di Angelo.” My voice is chilled and sharp. He doesn’t move, his hands are up, palms out, like he’s bracing himself for something.

“Please stay. Please don’t go. We can talk this out. Just let me explain.” The expression on his face is so broken that I almost want to listen to him. I do want to listen. Every part of me is screaming just to forgive him, screaming just to take what I can get and never let go.

I shoulder past him and he catches me by my sleeve, tugging, asking me to turn around. I don’t turn around. If I turn around, I won’t be able to keep from kissing him one last time. “I love you. _I love you.”_ His voice is broken and torn and he’s clutching at my sleeve like a life-line, “Please stay. Please.”

I jerk away from him and the last thing I hear before I slam the door is, “I can’t imagine anything without you. Will–!”

I’m two blocks away, tearing down the street and angrily dashing tears away from my cheeks, when I remember that everything I own is still back at that apartment and I have nowhere to go.

I want and I want and I want everything I used to have.


	2. It Goes Like This: I Hurt and I Heal and I Break

It hurts like this: I finally work up the courage to go back to the apartment after two weeks of moping at Cecil’s and he’s already gone. His stuff is swept clean of the place, it’s like he was never there at all. I almost believe it was some sort of dream, either a wonderful fantasy or a horrible nightmare, I can’t be sure, but I start finding traces of him all over. Clues that he _was_ there, he does exist.

It’s just little things: I glance down at the counter and there’s a gash in its surface from the time he was chopping up vegetables without a cutting board, I’m walking down the hall and there’s a dent in the wall from the first day we moved in when he insisted on carrying a huge bin in all by himself, I look over at the couch and remember the countless times he passed out there and I carried him to bed. His smells linger in the sheets, a container of the disgusting soy milk that he loves so much is still sitting in the fridge, one of his old sweatshirts got left behind in the closet, he installed the ceiling fan that spins above me at night, there’s a little heart smudged onto the bathroom mirror because he’s a sap, the DVR is still set to record his favorite show. The list goes on. I leave it all there for a while, try and pretend that it’s just because I can’t be bothered, when really it’s that I miss him and his things make me feel like maybe I haven’t lost him completely. Just maybe.

The expiration date on the milk rolls around and I remember it because it’s the day I decide that I need to get over Nico di Angelo. I throw it out and then I start collecting everything he forgot into a box, I hang a photo over the dent like we’d been meaning to ever since it happened, I finally wash the sheets. I spray Windex over the heart on the mirror and then hesitate before wiping it away. It feels symbolic and I hate it in the worst way.

And then I call Nico and tell him that there’re a few things he’s forgotten. He just breathes my name across the line and I feel myself crumbling. It’s almost like he can feel it because he forces his tone to be neutral and tells me that he’ll stop by tomorrow at five to pick up his things.

I plan on being there when he comes by, but then I start imagining the scene. I see the unavoidable _look_ that would be in his eyes and I try and picture myself making small talk with him like he’s just a stranger, handing him his things and then watching him walk out the door, like losing him all over again. I just can’t do it, so I leave it all outside the door like a coward. I’m a coward.

There’s a note taped to the door, telling him that I’m out and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. It’s 5:11 when I hear his fist hit the door, not hard or angry, but a dull thud like he’s completely given up hope, doesn’t even have the energy to be angry with me. I walk over to the door, press my eye to the peephole, and he’s leaning his head against it, all I can see is the dark mass of his hair.

My palm flattens out over the door. I want to open it and pull him into me, whisper to him and make him believe that everything is alright. But I remind myself that he’s not mine, not completely, and I settle for leaning my forehead against the door because I can’t bring myself to walk away.

I’m there long after I hear him curse under his breath, his voice half sob, and walk away.

I might not have his things in the apartment anymore, but it doesn’t ease the presence of his memory or the sting that it brings.

-

It heals like this: I’m off kilter for far too long, but gradually, things are getting better. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look back on Nico without a twinge of sadness, there will always be countless ‘what ifs’ and regret. 

_What if I’d never found that letter at all?_

_What if I’d just stayed a bit longer, let him explain himself?_

_What if I never find something that good again?_

I move on, though. I almost never roll over in the mornings and expect him to be there. I almost never let my finger hover over his name in my contacts. I tell myself I’m keeping it there just in case of some situation I can’t even come up with.

I do find someone, though. His name is Tyler and he has eyes the color of dying grass–bright green with flecks of pale yellow–and sandy blonde hair. He listens and he cares, he’s over at my place a lot and he never, not once, asks why I sometimes brush my fingers over that stupid slash in the counter or smile sadly at the soy milk in the supermarket like its an old friend.

I do tell him, though, I tell him all about Nico because I don’t want to keep any secrets. (I don’t tell him that he used to make the best cannolis I’d ever had, I don’t tell him that his smile made my day every day, I don’t tell him that he used to kiss my temple in the mornings and tell me that I looked even more beautiful today than I had yesterday, I don’t tell him that I always pulled him closer and kissed him like it would be the last time, and I definitely don’t tell him that it still hurts that one morning it was.)

If I have to admit it, though, sometimes when I kiss him I see Nico and I always remember reading that letter:  _I met a guy. His name is Will and he’s everything. He really is. But sometimes. Sometimes when I kiss him, I see you. And that scares me because how am I supposed to love him when a part of my heart still belongs to you?_

I hate it because I’m doing the exact same thing he did to me, hanging onto someone entirely different than the boy who’s curled up on the couch with me, running his fingers through my hair. It makes me sick because I keep hearing myself yelling at him, _I’m just your default plan because you can’t have someone else._

I keep hearing him begging me not to leave, telling me he loves me. It makes me wonder if I’d do the same thing if Tyler left. I’m not sure. I’m not sure. I just don’t know.

So I guess it isn’t entirely healed, it’s mending. (Still breaking, trying to mend.)

I regret it like that. 

-

It bites like this: I’m holding his hand–Tyler’s, not Nico’s–and he’s pulling me into a diner, making me laugh. Everything is alright up to the point when I put down my menu to look up at the server and freeze in shock.

Nico di Angelo has changed so much in the past six months. He got a haircut and I want to laugh because I was always teasing him about it, but it’s styled in an undercut and the front is still long and unruly. I want to tell him that that’s not what I meant when I said he needed to do something about the mess he called his hair, I want to run my fingers through it just like I used to.

He seems sharper than before, his muscles are more defined and _his eyes._ Something about his eyes makes me want to pull him close and whisper into his hair.

“Will,” he whispers and he has to shove the pen and notepad he was holding into his apron pocket because his hands are shaking so much.

All I can do is stare at him and open my mouth like I’m going to say something, I want to say something, but nothing seems like enough. Everything seems like too much. I settle for, “Nico,” and it comes out shaky and unsure.

Tyler’s head snaps toward me immediately and his lips tighten into a thin line. I’m still staring at Nico like he just sprouted wings.

_“This_ is Nico?” He keeps flicking his eyes back and forth between us like he’s trying to solve a tough puzzle.

I just nod and he locks eyes with Nico, demands his attention, “You broke his heart.”

He flinches and takes a step back, his eyes are so, so wide. _That_ breaks my heart. I’m going to start crying if I keep looking at him, so I just stand up and stare at the table instead. “We should go. I have to go.”

I know he’s shaking behind me, staring after us, frozen in place. I’m shaking too and when Tyler wraps his arms around my shoulders I have to brace myself and push on because I know it’s probably hurting him so much. _I care so much._

-

It relapses like this: his hands are shaking. His tears aren’t just slicking his cheeks, but they’re sliding over mine too, because his nose is dragging over my cheek and then his cheek is pressing in, flush against my own. I might be crying too, it seems possible. More than possible, it seems inevitable, because he’s sobbing and his lips are still tracing patterns across my skin and somehow that seems more heart-breaking than the tears themselves. It’s like he doesn’t care if he’s tearing himself apart, just as long as he puts me back together.

I have to keep reminding myself: this is not beauty, this is sadness. This is _sadness._

Everything before this is blurred at the edges because this moment is a starkly real. _He_ is so starkly real. I barely remember how he got here, straddling me on my couch, the couch that used be _ours._

Now it’s just mine. I want _him_ to be mine.

I tell him that, dragging a hand through his hair, “You’re not mine. I don’t believe it. I need you to be _mine.”  
_

It makes him laugh for reasons I don’t understand until he pulls back to look me in the eye, “I’ve always been yours. I’m _yours.”_

I just draw him closer, deliberately, carefully. I kiss him and he sighs like he’s coming home so I deepen the kiss, relearn the taste of him. This is everything I’ve ever wanted, all I need. How did I let it go? Why would I put myself through that?

“I already miss you.” He’s nuzzling against my neck and I miss him too, so that’s when I make the decision. It feels like a weight being lifted off of my shoulders and that must make me a terrible person.

Shuddering, caressing, feeling. It all feels so right and it’s so terribly wrong because I’m betraying the person who’s been so good to me for so long.

“I’m breaking up with Tyler.” I have to, I have to. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t

“Will–”

“Ssshh.”

-

It reforms like this: I’m holding him close to me on the couch, silently vowing that I’ll never let him go again, and he looks up at me, searches my eyes, “Did you ever finish reading the letter?”

I hadn’t.

_Percy,_

_I just needed to get this out. I know we haven’t seen each other in years, but I still think about you. More than I’d like to admit. Because I had a crush on you, probably still do. I do._

_There’s a reason I’m telling you this. I met a guy. His name is Will and he’s everything. He really is. But sometimes. Sometimes when I kiss him, I see you. And that scares me because how am I supposed to love him when a part of my heart still belongs to you?_

_I think I love you, Percy, I really do._

This time, I don’t stop there, though. The next sentence makes me want to break all over again.

_But I love him more. And I need to get over you. I think the only reason I can’t let go is because I’ve been crushing on you as long as I can remember. It’s almost a part of my identity. My favorite color is pale blue, I have two sisters, and I have a crush on Percy Jackson. That’s just stupid, though._

_I thought telling you might give me some closure. I thought it might help me let you go. I just want to focus on Will._

_So I guess the whole reason I’m writing this is because I want to see you again. I want to meet Annabeth. I think it’ll help me come to terms with everything and just let you go. I just want to move on._

_Please write back._

              - _Nico_

I let him go for no reason and my hands are shaking. I have him back now, though. I have him back and that’s all that matters.


End file.
